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HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 


Harps   Hung   Up   in 
Babylon 


BY 

ARTHUR   COLTON 


? •  -X 

OF 

f   UNIVERSITY  ) 

V  / 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 

BY 

ARTHUR  COLTON 


THE   QUINN    *   BODEN    CO.    PRESS 
RAH  WAY,    N.    J. 


DEDICATED   TO 

MY  FATHER 


176290 


The  harps  hung  up  in  Babylon, 

/ 

Their  loosened  strings  rang  on,  sang  on, 

And  cast  their  murmurs  forth  upon 

The  roll  and  roar  of  Babylon : 

"Forget  me,  Lord,  if  I  forget 

Jerusalem  for  Babylon, 

If  I  forget  the  vision  set 

High  as  the  head  of  Lebanon 

Is  lifted  over  Syria  yet, 

If  I  forget  and  bow  me  down 

To  brutish  gods  of  Babylon." 

Two  rivers  to  each  other  run 

In  the  very  midst  of  Babylon, 

And  swifter  than  their  current  fleets 

The  restless  river  of  the  streets 

Of  Babylon,  of  Babylon, 

And  Babylon's  towers  smite  the  sky, 

But  higher  reeks  to  God  most  high 

The  smoke  of  her  iniquity: 

"But  oh,  betwixt  the  green  and  blue 

To  walk  the  hills  that  once  we  knew 

When  you  were  pure  and  I  was  true,"- 

So  rang  the  harps  in  Babylon — 

"Or  ere  along  the  roads  of  stone 

Had  led  us  captive  one  by  one 

The  subtle  gods  of  Babylon" 


The  harps  hung  up  in  Babylon 

Hung  silent  till  the  prophet  dawn, 

When  Judah's  feet  the  highway  burned 

Back  to  the  holy  hills  returned, 

And  shook  their  dust  on  Babylon. 

In  Zion's  halls  the  wild  harps  rang, 

To  Zion's  walls  their  smitten  clang, 

And  lo!  of  Babylon  they  sang, 

They  only  sang  of  Babylon: 

"Jehovah,  round  whose  throne  of  awe 

The  vassal  stars  their  orbits  draw 

Within  the  circle  of  Thy  law, 

Canst  Thou  make  nothing  what  is  done, 

Or  cause  Thy  servant  to  be  one 

That  has  not  been  in  Babylon, 

That  has  not  known  the  power  and  pain 

Of  life  poured  out  like  driven  rain? 

I  will  go  down  and  find  again 

My  soul  that's  lost  in  Babylon" 


CONTENTS 

WEST-EASTERLY  MORALITIES  PAGE 

THE  CAPTIVE       .        .     • 3 

THE  BEGGAR       .        . 14 

THE  PILGRIM       .        .  "     .        .        .         .        .  19 

ALLAH'S  TENT     .        . 20 

THE  POET  AND  THE  FOUNTAIN          .        .        .        .21 

THE  CHENEAUX  ISLANDS 23 

THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  KNIGHT 29 

THE  HERB  OF  GRACE        .        .        ....       .        .  32 

VERSES  FROM  "THE  CANTICLE  OF  THE  ROAD"       .        .  37 

TO  FAUSTINE 

FAUSTINE      .........  43 

SOMETIME  IT  MAY  BE 44 

WHEN  ALL  THE  BROOKS  HAVE  RUN  AWAY     .        .  45 

ONE  HOUR           ........  46 

HEIRS  OF  TIME  . 47 

WHO  MAY  WITH  THE  SHREWD  HOURS  STRIVE?       .  48 
LET  ME  No  MORE  A  MENDICANT      .         .        .        .49 

CURARE  SEPULTOS       50 

TO-MORROW 51 

SNOW 52 

BY  THE  SEA 53 

IN  PORT  TO-DAY 55 

THE  RETURN       ........  56 

As  WE  GROW  OLD     .......  57 

WAYFARERS 58 

THE  HOUSE         .        ,        ,  ,        ,        ,        -59 


SONNETS  PAGE 

THE  HILLS 63 

WORDSWORTH 64 

THE  WATER-LILY •    .         .  65 

THE  THRUSH       ........  66 

THE  ROMAN  WAY 67 

FOLLY .        .  71 

CONCERNING  TABITHA'S  DANCING  OF  THE  MINUET         .  72 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WOOD 74 

PHYLLIS  AND  CORYDON     .......  77 

MAYING       ..........  78 

Two  LITTLE  MAIDS 79 

TWENTY  YEARS  HENCE 80 

WITHOUT  THE  GATE 82 

ANCIEN  M'SIEU  PIERRE .         .  83 

CHRISTMAS  EVE .  84 

THE  CAROL  SINGER  ........  85 

ARCADIE.    I 86 

ARCADIE.    II 87 

MARTIAL  TO  PLINY    .        .         .        .        ...        .88 

LAST  YEAR'S  NEST 89 

EPILOGUE  TO  A  BOOK  OF  UNIMPORTANT  VERSES     .        .  90 

FINIS           ..........  91 


WEST-EASTERLY   MORALITIES 


THE   CAPTIVE 

There  was  a  king,  returned  from  putting  down 
The  stiff  rebellion  of  an  Afghan  town, 
Who  marked  for  death  a  captive.    Then  arose 
The  ragged  Afghan  from  the  marble  floor, 
Nor  longer  to  the  king's  feet  weeping  clung, 
But  in  the  babble  of  his  foreign  tongue 
He  cursed  him,  as  that  ancient  saying  goes : 
"Who  comes  to  wash  himself  in  death,  before 
Entering  the  pool,  empties  his  heart  ashore." 

"What  mean  these  words?"     The  king's  voice,  cold 

and  loud, 

Rang  in  the  space  above  the  frightened  crowd, 
That  bent  before  it,  as  when  storm-winds  blow 
Their  warning  horns,  and  the  storm  crouches  low 
Still  on  the  solid  hills  with  sombre  eyes, 
Long  lightnings  slant,  and  muffled  thunders  rise, 
And  startled  forests,  helpless  to  retreat, 
Stand  with  their  struggling  arms  and  buried  feet. 

f3] 


An  aged  vizier  rose,  and  bowed  his  head, 
Clasping  his  gentle  withered  hands:  "He  said: 
'To  two  God  gives  the  shelter  of  His  cloak, 
Him  who  keeps  down  the  anger  in  his  breast, 
Him  who  in  justice  counteth  mercy  best; 
God  shelter  me  and  thee.'     The  man  so  spoke." 

And  the  king  bade  them  set  the  Afghan  free, 
Who  in  the  face  of  death  spoke  graciously. 

Ben  AH,  the  young  vizier,  to  his  feet 
Leaped :  "As  I  hold  by  counsellors  it  is  meet 
Truth  should  be  spoken  at  a  king's  demand, 
This  man  reviled  thee  with  a  shameful  word!" 
Whereat  the  king  was  mute,  as  one  who  heard 
A  voice  in  his  own  breast ;  turned  with  his  hand 
The  bracelets  on  his  arm;  then  speaking  low, 
Once  more  he  bade  them  let  the  Afghan  go. 

THE    KING. 

"Art  thou  so  upright,  and  by  God  made  free 
To  be  malignant  in  integrity? 
Is  it  the  truth  alone  thou  owest  to  the  king? 
Nay,  but  all  oracles  that  whispering 
Speak  in  the  central  chamber  of  the  heart, 
Saving  when  envy  speaks,  which  spoke  in  thee. 
But  thou,  my  father,  shall  not  thy  name  be 
Henceforth  'The  Merciful'?     For  so  thou  art. 

[4] 


So  spoke  the  king,  and,  leaning  head  to  head, 
The  courtiers  whispered,  and  Ben  Ali  said: 

BEN    ALI. 

"Is  it  not  written:  'When  the  truth  is  known, 

Then  only  the  king's  mercy  is  his  own'? 

If  then  the  king  his  servant  will  forgive 

For  rendering  back  the  king's  prerogative, 

Forgive  the  misshaped  mouth  ill  made  to  lie, 

Forgive  the  straitened  walk,  the  single  eye, 

Forgive  the  holy  dead  for  truth  who  died, 

And  those  who  thought  their  deaths  were  sanctified 

With  such  forgiveness  let  me  then  go  hence, 

And,  in  some  desert  place  of  penitence 

And  meditation,  read  it  in  the  dust, 

If  He  who  sends  His  rain  upon  the  just, 

And  sends  His  rain  upon  the  unjust  too, 

Is  mercifully  false,  or  merely  true." 

THE    KING. 

And  the  king  said:  "Thou  livest!    And  thy  words 

Are  more  for  peril  than  a  thousand  swords! 

Is  it  king's  custom  to  bear  two  men's  scorn 

In  the  short  compass  of  a  single  morn  ? 

Go  to  thine  house  and  wait  until  thou  know 

The  king's  hand  follows  when  his  voice  says,  Go." 

[5] 


Ben  Ali  from  the  court  went  forth  in  shame, 
And  after  him  the  shivering  Afghan  came, 
Whom,  taking  by  the  garment,  he  led  down 
Through  the  packed  highways  of  the  busy  town, 
To  where  in  flowers  and  shadows,  peace  and  pride, 
His  gardened  palace  by  the  river  side 
Lay  like  a  lotus  in  perfumed  repose ; 
There  set  a  feast  for  him  as  for  the  king, 
With  friendly  words  and  courteous  welcoming 
Sat  with  the  ragged  Afghan,  while  beneath 
The  dancing  girls,  each  with  her  jasmine  wreath, — 
And  one  that  dallied  with  a  crimson  rose, — 
Sang  softly  in  the  garden  cool,  that  sank 
By  lawn  and  terrace  to  the  river's  bank: 

"So  dear  thou  art, 

The  seed  that  thou  hast  planted  in  the  mould 
And  fertile  fallow  of  my  heart 

Hath  borne  a  thousand-fold, 
So  dear  thou  art. 

"Sweet  love,  wild  love, 
Love  will  I  sow  and  love  will  reap, 
And  where  the  golden  harvest  bends  above 
There  will  I  find  sleep, 

Sweet  love,  child  love." 

[6] 


And  when  the  feast  was  over,  and  remained 
Only  the  fruits,  and  wine  in  flasks  contained, 
And  costly  drinking  cups,  Ben  Ali  rose 
And  left  the  chattering  Afghan  with  a  smile, 
To  walk  among  his  aloe  trees  awhile, 
Thinking:  "Day  closes.    Ere  another  close 
These  things  I  see  no  more,  for  a  king's  wrath 
Leaps  foaming  down  and  falls,  as  cataracts  leap 
And  fall  from  sleeping  pools  to  pools  asleep, 
And  either  ere  to-morrow  night  I  die, 
Or  all  my  days  in  exiled  penury 
Among  strange  peoples  tread  the  strangers'  path." 

And  while  in  shadows  with  slow  pace  he  went 
The  ruddy  daylight  faded  in  the  west, 
And  she  that  held  the  rose  against  her  breast 
Sang  to  the  stirring  of  some  instrument: 

"The  sea 

That  rounds  in  gloom 

The  pallid  pearl, 

Where  corals  curl 

The  rosy  edges  of  their  barren  bloom, 
And  cold  seamaidens  wear 
Inwoven  in  their  hair 

A  light  that  draws  the  sailor  down  the  wet  ways  of 
despair, 

[7] 


In  whose  green  silken  glisten 

They  drift  and  wait  and  listen, 

And  the  sea-monsters  lift  their  heads  and  stare ! 

The  sorrowing  sea, 
Like  life  in  me, 

Wavers  in  homeless  dreams  till  love  is  knoWn 
And  love  for  life  atone." 

Meanwhile  the  Afghan,  glancing  here  and  there, 

Saw  no  one  by  him,  and  arose  in  haste, 

And  took  the  drinking  cups  with  jewels  graced, 

And  hid  them  in  his  rags,  from  stair  to  stair 

Slid  like  a  shadow,  and  from  hall  to  hall ; 

So  vanished,  like  a  shadow  from  the  wall. 

Ben  AH  from  his  aloe-planted  lawn 
Returned,  and  saw  the  drinking  cups  were  gone, 
And  smiled  and  leaned  him  in  the  window  dim 
To  watch  the  dancing  girls,  who,  seeing  him, 
Began  again  to  weave,  to  part,  to  close, 
With  tinkling  bells  and  shimmer  of  white  feet, 
And  she  that  drooped  her  head  above  a  rose 
Sang  in  the  twilight,  languid,  slow,  and  sweet: 

"Close-curtained  rose, 
Open  thy  petals  and  the  dew  disclose. 

Hide  not  so  long 
Those  crimson  shades  among, 

[8] 


In  silken  splendour 
That  nestling  tender, 
That  dewdrop  cradled  in  the  heart  of  thee, 
God  meant  for  me. 

"A  little  while, 
And  naught  to  me  the  blossom  of  thy  smile. 

Forgive  all  men; 
Yea,  love,  forgive  the  false  and  trust  again, 

For   life   deceiveth, 

And  love  believeth; 
Within  love's  merciful  chambers  let  us  stay, 

The  while  we  may." 

The  singing  ceased.    There  rose  a  storm  of  calls 

And  sudden  clangour  in  his  outer  halls; 

And  these  were  hushed,  and  some  one  cried:   "The 

king!" 

Followed  the  tread  of  armed  men  entering. 
Ben  Ali  rose,  thinking,  "My  time  was  brief;" 
And  lo,  not  only  the  tall  king  stood  there, 
His  bracelets  glittering  in  the  torches'  glare, 
And  gloomy  eyes  beneath  his  sweeping  hair, 
But  at  his  feet  cringed  the  swart  Afghan  thief. 

THE    KING. 

"Thus  saith  the  law :  'The  thief  shall  have  his  hands 
Struck  from  his  wrists,  in  payment  of  the  wage 
Belonging  to  his  sin.'    The  king  commands 

[9] 


That  thou,  Ben  Ali,  wisdom's  flower  in  youth, 
Mirror  of  righteousness  and  well  of  truth, 
Critic  of  kings,  rebuker  of  old  age, 
Shalt  judge  this  Afghan  dog  as  the  law  stands." 

Ben  Ali  stood  with  folded  arms,  and  face 
Bent  down  in  meditation  for  a  space. 

BEN  ALI. 

"It  is  good  law,  O  King.    But  is  it  not 
Good  law  that,  'He  who  stealeth  to  devote 
To  some  religious  purpose  and  intent 
Is  held  exempted  from  that  punishment'?" 

THE    KING. 

"It  is  good  law.    But  the  law  holds  'Unproved 
The  finer  motive  which  the  thief  hath  moved 
Unless  the  pious  dedication  be 
Sequent  immediate  to  the  thievery.'  ' 

BEN    ALL 

"It  is  good  law,  O  King,  and  good  to  heed. 
Now,  of  'religious  purposes'  it  calls 
First,  'to  relieve  the  needy  of  their  need.' 
Can  it  be  doubted  that  this  Afghan  falls 
Among  the  'needy,'  and  became  a  thief 
To  his  own  need's  immediate  relief? 

[10] 


Nay,  in  the  very  act  of  thieving  vowed 
That  'pious  dedication'?     Which  allowed, 
Follows  the  law's  exemption." 

The  king  smiled, 

And  said:  "Set  free  this  good  man.    To  thy  wild 
Bleak  mountains,  Afghan.    Is  the  world  so  small 
That  thou  must  steal  -if  thou  must  steal  at  all — 
From  such  a  friend  as  this?"    The  Afghan  fled, 
The  king  across  Ben  Ali's  shoulders  passed 
His  heavy  arm  and  to  the  gardens  led, 
Where  fluttered  groups  of  dancing  girls,  aghast, 
Huddled  aside,  and  through  the  night  at  last 
Came  to  the  river,  and  Ben  Ali  said : 

BEN    ALI. 

"Hearken,  O  King,  thy  counsellor's  report: 
Thou  keepest  a  young  vizier  in  thy  court 
Unfit  to  be  a  counsellor  to  power, 
Fit  only  to  jest  with  an  idle  hour, 
Who  holds  the  scales  of  justice  not  in  awe, 
And  lightly  quibbles  with  the  holy  law, 
And  takes  the  lives  of  trembling  men  to  be 
The  butt  and  plaything  of  his  casuistry." 

THE   KING. 

"Hearken,  O  Counsellor,  thy  king's  desire: 
Ere  next  thou  blow  ablaze  the  sullen  fire 


That  smoulders  in  him,  see  that  thou  provide 

Withal  a  secret  place  in  which  to  hide, 

Lest  the  king's  darkened  days  on  darkness  fall 

And  miss  for  aye  a  bright  face  at  his  side; 

For,  be  it  truth  thou  sayest — yea,  and  truth 

Is  the  sharp  sword  and  javelin  of  youth — 

That  every  merciful  and  smiling  lie 

Shall  come  to  smile  and  curse  us  ere  wTe  die, 

That  the  king  standeth  as  a  massive  wall 

Which  leans  to  ruin,  if  it  lean  at  all 

Out  of  the  upright  line  of  equity; 

Yet,  ah,  my  bitter  counsellor,"  said  the  king, 

"When  thou  wouldst  speak  some  truth  that  bears  a  sting, 

I  pray  thee,  speak  as  bearing  love  to  me, 

Who  am  of  such  as,  lonely  for  their  kind, 

In  dusty  deserts  of  the  spirit  find 

A  naked  penitence  which  no  man  sees. 

My  cup  of  life  is  drunken  to  the  lees, 

And  thine  hath  still  its  bead  along  the  brim; 

And  therefore,  as  in  halls  empty  and  dim, 

Wakens  thy  step  the  echoes  in  my  heart, 

And  all  thy  heady  ways  and  reckless  tongue, 

That  splits  the  marrow  like  a  Kalmuck's  dart, 

Seem  like  my  very  own  when  first  I  flung 

A  challenge  in  the  teeth  of  life.    God  knows, 

The  stars  will  not  again  look  down  on  me 

With  their  old  radiant  intensity ; 

[12] 


Only  I  seem  to  see,  as  by  the  gleam 

Of  boatmen's  torches  mirrored  in  the  stream 

That  bears  them  on,  a  faith  that  not  alone 

He  builds  His  temple  of  enduring  stone, 

But  sends  the  flowers  that  in  its  crannies  creep, 

And  in  His  very  scales  of  justice  throws 

The  young  man's  dreams,  the  tears  of  them  that  weep, 

The  words  the  maiden  murmurs  to  the  rose." 

The  king  was  still.    A  passing  boatman's  oars 
Sent  the  lit  ripples  to  the  shadowed  shores. 
A  near  muezzin's  long,  high-towered  call 
Went  yearning  up  to  star-lit  architraves, 
And  dying  left  a  silence  over  all, 
Saving  the  grassy  whisper  of  small  waves. 


[13] 


THE    BEGGAR 

There  was  a  man  whom  a  king  loved,  and  heard 
With  smiles  his  swift  step  and  impetuous  word 
Among  the  slow-paced  counsellors.    To  the  young 
Belong  the  careless  hand,  the  daring  tongue. 
Pleasure  and  pride  are  the  tall  flowers  that  spring 
Within  the  fertile  shadow  of  the  king. 

There  sat  a  beggar  in  the  market-place, 

Of  sullen  manner  and  a  surly  face, 

Who  caught  him  by  the  cloak;  that  with  a  stone 

He  smote  the  beggar's  head,  and  so  passed  on, 

Cassim  Ben  Ali,  up  the  palace  hill, 

Leaving  the  beggar,  fallen,  grim,  and  still. 

Sudden  as  the  king's  favour  is  his  wrath. 

Who  for  the  morrow  knows  what  joy  he  hath? 

Nor  can  he  pile  it  in  his  vaults  to  stay 

The  crowding  misery  of  another  day. 

So  fell  Ben  Ali  for  an  arrowy  word 

And  barbed  jest  that  the  king's  anger  stirred, 

[14] 


And  he  was  led  beyond  the  noisy  brawls 
Of  traders  chaffering  at  the  market  stalls, 
And  in  a  pit  thrown  near  the  city  walls. 
Whither  the  beggar  came,  and  came  alone, 
A  cobble  in  his  hand,  beside  the  pit. 
"The  wise  man  waiteth  till  the  time  is  fit, 
The  foolish  hasteneth  to  grief,"  he  said, 
Casting  the  cobble  on  Ben  Ali's  head: 
"I  am  that  beggar,  and  behold  that  stone." 

Ben  Ali  on  the  morrow  was  restored 

To  the  benignant  presence  of  his  lord, 

And  sending  for  the  beggar,  softly  said: 

"This  is  that  stone."    The  beggar  bowed  his  head 

"'And  this  my  head,  which  is  among  the  lowly, 

As  thine  is  high,  and  God  is  just  and  holy," 

And  threw  himself  lamenting  on  the  floor. 

Ben  Ali  pondered  then  a  moment  more. 
"Thou  sayest  truly,  God  is  just;  and  lo! 
Both  of  our  heads  have  ached  beneath  a  blow. 
I  in  my  time  grow  wiser,  and  divine 
The  beating  of  thy  head  will  not  heal  mine ; 
And  have  considered  and  have  found  it  wise, 
To  exchange  with  thee  some  other  merchandise. 
Take  this  gold  dinar,  and  remember  then 
That  God  is  just,  if  so  I  come  again 
Into  a  pit  and  ask  return  of  thee." 

[*5] 


Once  more  Ben  Ali  was  brought  low,  to  see 

The  king's  clenched  hand,  fixed  look,  and  rigid  frown, 

Thrust  from  the  palace  gate  to  wander  down, 

Stripped  of  his  silks,  in  poverty  and  shame, 

Into  the  market  where  the  traders  came 

With  files  of  sag-necked  camels  o'er  the  sands, 

Bringing  the  corded  wares  of  hidden  lands. 

And  walking  there  with  eyes  now  wet  and  dim, 

He  sought  the  beggar,  found,  and  said  to  him: 

"Remember  thine  exchange  of  merchandise, 

Who  sayest,  God  is  just  and  'thou  art  wise." 

"Who  sayeth  'God  is  just,'  speaks  not  of  me; 
Who  calleth  thee  a  fool,  means  none  but  thee," 
Answered  the  beggar.     "For  I  understood 
To  pay  the  evil  back  and  keep  the  good 
Is  increase  of  the  good  in  merchandise ; 
Therefore  I  keep  the  dinar,  and  am  wise." 

Which  thing  was  brought  to  the  king's  ear,  and  he 
Summoned  the  two  to  stand  before  his  knee, 
And  took  the  dinar  from  the  beggar's  hand, 
And  giving  to  Ben  Ali,  gave  command 
To  those  who  waited  for  his  word:  "Bring  stones 
That  he  may  beat  with  them  this  beggar's  bones, 
Who  mocks  at  justice,  saying  'God  is  just,' 
And  boasting  wisdom,  fouls  her  in  the  dust." 

[16] 


Ben  AH  through  his  meditation  heard 
The  counsellors  approving  the  king's  word, 
And  spoke  above  their  even  murmuring: 
"Let  justice  be  with  God  and  with  the  king, 
Who  are  not  subject  to  a  moment's  chance, 
Made  and  unmade  by  shifting  circumstance. 
This  is  the  wisdom  of  the  poor  and  weak: 
The  smitten  cheek  shall  warn  its  brother  cheek, 
And  each  man  to  his  nook  of  comfort  run, 
His  little  portion  of  the  morning  sun, 
His  little  corner  of  the  noonday  shade, 
His  wrongs  forgotten  as  his  debts  unpaid. 
Let  not  the  evil  and  the  good  we  do 
Be  ghosts  to  haunt  us,  phantoms  to  pursue. 
I  have  the  dinar  and  would  fain  be  clear 
Of  further  trading  with  this  beggar  here ; 
For  he  nor  I  have  caused  the  world  to  be, 
Nor  govern  kingdoms  with  our  equity." 

"Art  thou  so  poor  then,  and  the  beggar  wise, 
God's  justice  hidden,  and  the  king's  astray?" 
Answered   the  king,  slow-voiced,  with  brooding  eyes. 
"Art  thou  so  weak,  and  strong  to  drive  away 
Far  from  to-day  the  ghost  of  yesterday? 
Free  is  thy  lifted  head,  while  on  mine  own 
The  gathered  past  lies  heavier  than  the  crown? 
So  be  it  as  thou  sayest,  with  him  and  thee, 
Thou  who  forgivest  evil  bitterly." 


So  spoke  the  king.     Ben  Ali's  steps  once  more 
Were  swift  and  silken  on  the  palace  floor. 
The  beggar  went  with  grim,  unchanging  face 
Back  to  his  begging  in  the  market-place. 


[18] 


THE   PILGRIM 

I  heard  a  pilgrim  near  a  temple  gate 
Praying,  "I  have  no  fear,  for  Thou  art  Fate. 

"Morn,  eve,  noon,  if  I  look  up  to  Thee, 

Wilt  Thou  at  night  look  down,  remembering  me? 

"Nay,  then,  my  sins  so  great,  my  service  small," — 
So  prayed  he  at  the  gate, — "forget  them  all. 

"Of  claims  and  rights  a  load  the  while  I  keep, 
How  in  Thy  nights,  O  God,  to  smile  and  sleep? 

"Pardon,  neglect,  or  slay,  as  is  most  meet ; 
My  beaten  face  I  lay  beneath  Thy  feet." 

"Pilgrim,"  I  said,  "hath  He,  who  toils  the  while, 
Bade  thee,  of  burdens  free,  to  sleep  and  smile? 

"Who  built  the  hills  on  high,  and  laid  the  sea, 
Set  in  thy  heart  the  cry,  'Remember  me!'  " 


[19] 


ALLAH'S   TENT 

With  fore  cloth  smoothed  by  careful  hands 
The  night's  serene  pavilion  stands, 
And  many  cressets  hang  on  high 
Against  its  arching  canopy. 

Peace  to  His  children  God  hath  sent, 
We  are  at  peace  within  His  tent. 
Who  knows  without  these  guarded  doors 
What  wrind  across  the  desert  roars  ? 


[20] 


THE    POET  AND  THE    FOUNTAIN 

Firdausi  by  the  palace  fountain  stood 
Hard  by  the  Court  of  Song  in  quiet  mood. 

The  Sultan  smiled  to  see  him.    "Thy  beard  shows 
Thee  nearer  to  the  cypress  than  the  rose, 

"Firdausi.     Is  thy  heart  warm  and  blood  cold, 
Who  singest  of  love  and  beauty,  being  old?" 

Firdausi  to  the  fountain  turned  his  eyes, 
Grey-mossed  and  lichened  by  the  centuries. 

"What  maketh  this  sweet  music,  sayest  thou? 
The  water  or  the  stones?"     The  Sultan's  brow- 
Was  overclouded.     "Were  the  water  fled, 
There  were  no  music  certainly,"  he  said. 

"The  water  singing  through  the  garden  runs. 
Nay,  but  there  is  no  music  in  dead  stones." 

Firdausi  bowed:  "Allah  His  grace  unfold 
Upon  the  Sultan !     Is  the  water  old  ?" 


THE    CHENEAUX    ISLANDS 

There  is  a  wistful,  lingering  regret 
Ever  for  those  whose  feet  are  set 
On  other  paths  than  where  their  childhood  moved, 

And,  having  loved 

The  old  colonial  hills,  no  level  plain, 
No  tangled  forest,  the  same  hope  contain, 
And  by  the  northern  lakes  I  stand  unsatisfied, 
Watching  the  tremulous  shadows  start  and  slide, 
Hearing  the  listless  waves  among  the  stones, 

And  the  low  tones 

Of  a  breeze  that  through  the  hemlocks  creeps. 
Veiled  in  grey  ashes  sleeps 
The  campfire,  and  thin  streams 
Of  smoke  float  off  like  beckoning  dreams 
Of  peaceful  men.    Around  me  broods 
The  sense  of  aged  solitudes, 
Of  lonely  places  where 
Cold  winds  have  torn  blue  midnight  air 
And  dipped  beneath  the  edges  of  the  leaves 

To  moons  unchronicled. 

[23] 


We  bring 

The  talk  of  cities  and  of  schools, 
Yet  to  these  quiet  pools, 
Calm  with  a  thousand  silent  morns  and  eves, 
It  seems  no  alien  thing; 
The  shadows  of  the  woods 
Are  brothers  to  our  moods. 
Nor  less  in  the  quick  rush  of  vivid  streets, 
And  libraries  with  long  rows  of  mouldering  thought, 
Is  nature,  than  in  green  retreats; 
Whither  from  year  to  year 
I  come  with  eager  eye  and  ear, 
Hoping,  some  leafy  hour,  to  feel, 
In  ways  of  civic  feet  unsought, 
A  secret  from  the  brown  earth  steal 
Into  my  spirit,  and  reveal 
Some  wisdom  of  a  larger  worth, 
Some  quiet  truth  of  growth  and  birth  ; 
If  we,  the  kindred  on  the  earth, 
Are  kindred  with  her,  to  one  issue  moving  on 
Of  melancholy  night  or  shimmering  dawn, 
Surely  befits  we  wanderers  wild 
To  her  confederate  breast  be  reconciled ; 
Out  of  her  primal  sleep  we  came, 
And  she  still  dreams;  of  us  that  hold 
Such  strenuous  course  and  venture  bold, 
Whom  such  unknown  ambition  stirs, 

[24] 


Asks  of  our  bright,  unsteady  flame: 
What  issue  ours  that  is  not  hers? 

How  came  he  once  to  these  green  isles 

And  channels  winding  miles  and  miles, 

Cross  clasped  in  hand  and  pale  face  set, 

The  Jesuit,  Pere  Marquette  ? 

To  sombre  nations,  with  the  blight 

Of  dead  leaves  in  the  blood, 

The  eager  priest  into  their  solitude 

And  melancholy  mood 

Flashed  like  a  lamp  at  night 

In  sluggish  sleepers'  eyes; 

Out  of  the  east  where  mornings  rise 

Came  like  the  morning  into  ashen  skies 

With  the  east's  subtle  fire  and  surprise, 

And  stern  beyond  his  knowledge  brought 

A  message  other  than  he  thought: 

"Lo !  an  edict  here  from  the  throne  of  fate, 

Whose  banners  are  lifted  and  armies  wait ; 

The  fight  moves  on  at  the  front,  it  says, 

And  the  word  hath  come  after  many  days : 

Ye  shall  walk  no  more  in  your  ancient  ways." 

Father,  the  word  has  come  and  gone, 

The  torpid  races 

Slumbered,  and  vanished  from  their  places ; 

[25] 


And  in  our  ears  intoning  ring 
The  words  of  that  most  weary  king 
In  Israel,  King  Solomon. 
Over  the  earth's  untroubled  face 
The  restless  generations  pace, 
Finding  their  graves  regretfully; 
Is  there  no  crown,  nor  any  worth, 
For  men  who  build  upon  the  earth 
What  time  treads  down  forgetfully? 
Unchanged  the  graven  statute  lies, 
The  code  star-lettered  in  the  skies. 
It  is  written  there,  it  is  written  here; 
The  law  that  knows  not  far  or  near 

Is  sacrifice ; 

And  bird  and  flower,  and  beast  and  tree, 
Kingdom  and  planet  wheeling  free 
Are  sacrificed  incessantly. 

From  dark,  through  dusk,  toward  light,  we  tread 
On  the  thorn-crowned  foreheads  of  the  dead. 
The  law  says  not  there  is  nothing  lost ; 
It  only  says  that  the  end  is  gain ; 
The  gain  may  be  at  the  helpless  cost 
Of  hands  that  give  in  vain; 
And  in  this  world,  where  many  give, 
None  gives  the  widow's  mite  save  he 
That,  having  but  one  life  to  live, 
Gives  that  one  life  so  utterly. 

[26] 


Thou  that  unknowing  didst  obey, 

With  straitened  thought  and  clouded  eye, 

The  law,  we  learn  at  this  late  day, 

O  Pere  Marquette,  whose  war  is  done, 

Ours  is  the  charge  to  bear  it  on, 

To  hold  the  veering  banner  high 

Until  we  die, 

To  meet  the  issue  in  whose  awe 
Our  kindred  earth  wye  stand  above, 
If  knowing  sacrifice  is  law, 
We  sacrifice  ourselves  for  love. 


Or  are  we  then  such  stuff  as  fills  a  dream? 

Some  wide-browed  spirit  dreams  us,  where  he  stands 

Watching  the  long  twilight's  stream 

Below  his  solemn  hands, 

Whose  reverie  and  shaping  thought  began 

Before  the  stars  in  their  large  order  ran  ? 

Fluid  we  are,  our  days  flow  on, 

And  round  them  flow  the  rivers  of  the  sun, 

As  long  ago  in  places  where 

The  Halicarnassian  wandered  with  his  curious  eyes 

On  Egypt's  mysteries, 

And  Babylonian  gardens  of  the  air 

Hung  green  above  the  city  wall. 

If  this  were  all,  if  this  were  all — 

[27] 


If  it  were  all  of  life  to  give 
Our  hearts  to  God  and  slip  away, 
And  if  the  end  for  which  we  live 
Were  simple  as  the  close  of  day, 
Were  simple  as  the  fathers  say, 
Were  simple  as  their  peace  was  deep 
Who  in  the  old  faith  fell  asleep ! 

No  night  bird  now  makes  murmur;  in  the  trees 

No  drowsy  chuckle  of  dark-nested  ease. 

The  campfire's  last  grey  embers  fall. 

With  dipping  prow  and  shallop  sides 

The  slender  moon  to  her  mooring  rides 

Over  the  ridge  of  Isle  La  Salle, 

Under  the  lee  of  the  world, 

Her  filmy  halliards  coiled  and  thin  sails  furled, 

And  silver  clouds  about  her  phantom  rudder  curled. 


THE    SHEPHERD    AND   THE 
KNIGHT 

SHEPHERD. 

Sir  Knight  with  stalwart  spear  and  shield, 

Where  ridest  thou  to-day? 

The  sunlight  lies  across  the  field ; 

Thou  art  weary  in  the  way ; 

Dismount  and  stay. 

KNIGHT. 

Peace  to  thine  house  and  folds  and  stalls, 
I  ride  upon  my  quest. 
I  travel  until  evening  falls 
Whither  my  Lord  deems  best, 
By  me  unguessed. 

SHEPHERD. 

Who  is  your  lord  that  sends  you  forth, 
Good  knight,  from  your  own  land? 
He  needs  must  be  of  royal  worth, 
To  whom  such  warriors  stand 
At  his  command. 


KNIGHT. 

We  have  not  seen  His  face,  we  hear 

A  voice  that  bids  us  be 

The  servants  of  an  unborn  year, 

Knights  of  a  day  that  we 

Shall  never  see. 

SHEPHERD. 

Good  reason  that  ye  go  astray! 

Warrior,  I  fain  would  learn — 

So  many  young  knights  wend  this  way- 

What  wages  they  may  earn, 

For  none  return. 

KNIGHT. 

They  go  before  me  in  the  night, 

They  follow  after  me, 

They  earn  the  triumph  of  the  right, 

Their  wages  are  to  be 

Faithful  as  He. 

SHEPHERD. 

Look  you,  Sir  Knight,  I  take  mine  ease, 
Fat  are  my  sheep  and  kine, 
I  have  mine  own  philosophies, 
My  way  of  life 

[30] 


KNIGHT. 

Is  thine, 
And  mine  is  mine. 

SHEPHERD. 

Why,  now !    The  man  is  gone !     Pardie ! 

A  silly  wage!     I  trow 

His  lord  that  pays  him  mad  as  he, 

Fools  are  a  crop  will  grow 

Though  no  man  sow. 


[31] 


THE    HERB    OF    GRACE 

To  all  who  fain  would  pass  their  days 
Among  old  books  and  quiet  ways, 
And  walk  with  cool,  autumnal  pace 
The  bypaths  of  tranquillity, 
To  each  his  own  select  desire, 
To  each  his  old  familiar  briar 
And  silent  friend  and  chattering  fire, 
Companions  in  civility. 

Outside  the  world  goes  rolling  by, 
And  on  the  trampling  and  the  cry 
There  comes  the  long,  low  mournful  sigh 
Of  night  winds  roaming  vagrantly; 
They  see  too  many  sullen  sights 
This  side  the  stars  on  winter  nights; 
A  kind  of  hopeless  Jacobites. 
— This  brand,  indeed,  smokes  fragrantly. 

The  perfect  mixture's  far  to  seek ; 
Your  pure  Virginia,  pale  and  meek, 
Requires  the  passion  of  Perique, 
The  Latakian  lyrics; 

[32] 


Perfection  is  the  crown  that  flies 
The  reaching  hands  and  longing  eyes, 
And  art  demands  what  life  denies 
To  nicotine  empirics. 

Sirs,  you  remember  Omar's  choice, 
Wine,  verses,  and  his  lady's  voice 
Making  the  wilderness  rejoice? 
It  needs  one  more  ingredient. 
A  boon,  the  Persian  knew  not  of, 
Had  made  to  mellower  music  move 
The  lips  to  wine,  if  not  to  love, 
A  trifle  too  obedient. 

This  weed  I  call  the  "herb  of  grace." 
My  reasons  are,  as  some  one  says, 
"Between  me  and  my  fireplace." 
Ophelia  spoke  of  rue,  you  know. 
"There's  rue  for  you  and  there's  for  me, 
But  you  must  wear  it  differently." 
Quite  true,  of  course. — Your  pipe  I  see 
Draws  hard.    They  sometimes  do,  you  know. 

Alas,  if  we  in  fancy's  train 
To  drowse  beside  our  fires  are  fain, 
Letting  the  world  slip  by  amain, 
Uneager  of  its  verities, 

[33] 


Our  neighbours  will  not  let  us  be 
At  peace  with  inutility. 
They  quote  us  maxims,  two  or  three, 
Or  similar  asperities. 

I  question  not  a  man  may  bear 
His  still  soul  walled  from  noisy  care, 
And  walk  serene  in  places  where 
An  ancient  wrath  is  denizen; 
The  pilgrim's  feet  may  know  no  ease, 
And  yet  his  heart's  delight  increase, 
For  all  ways  that  are  trod  in  peace 
Lead  upward  to  God's  benison. 

No  less  I  doubt  our  age's  need 
Is  some  of  Izaak  Walton's  creed. — 
Your  pardon,  gentlemen!  I  breed 
Impatience  with  a  homily. — 
Our  flag  there  were  a  sombre  type, 
If  every  star  implied  a  stripe. 
I  wish  you  all  a  wholesome  pipe, 
And  ingle  blinking  bonnily. 

Poor  ethics  these  of  mine,  I  fear, 
And  yet,  when  our  green  leaves  and  sere 
Have  dropped  away,  perhaps  we'll  hear 
These  questions  answered  curiously. 

[34] 


The  battered  book  here  on  my  knees? 
Is  Herrick,  his  "Hesperides." 
Gold  apples  from  the  guarded  trees 
Are  stored  here  not  penuriously. 

The  poet  of  the  gurgling  phrase 
And  quaint  conceits  of  elder  days, 
Loved  holiness  and  primrose  ways 
About  in  equal  quantities, 
Wassail  and  yuletide,  feast  and  fair, 
Blown  petticoats,  a  child's  low  prayer; 
A  fine,  old  pagan  joy  is  there  ; 
Some  wild-rose  muse's  haunt  it  is. 

Mine  herb  of  grace,  that  kindred  art 
To  all  who  choose  "the  better  part," 
Grant  us  the  old  wrorld's  childlike  heart, 
Now  grown  an  antique  rarity! 
With  mayflowers  on  our  swords  and  shields 
We'll  learn  to  babble  of  green  fields 
Like  Falstaff,  whom  good  humour  yields 
A  place  still  in  its  charity. 

Visions  will  come  at  times ;  I  note 
One  writh  a  cool,  white,  delicate  throat ; 
Glory  of  names  that  shine  remote, 
From  towers  of  high  endeavouring. 

[35] 


Care  not  for  these,  nor  care  to  roam, 
Ulysses,  o'er  the  beckoning  foam. 
"Here  rest  and  call  content  our  home" 
Beside  our  fire's  soft  wavering. 


[36] 


VERSES   FROM    "THE   CANTICLE 
OF   THE    ROAD" 


On  the  open  road,  with  the  wind  at  heel 
Who  is  keen  of  scent  and  yelping  loud, 
Stout  heart  and  bounding  blood  wre  feel, 
Who  follow  fancy  till  day  has  bowed 
Her  forehead  pure  to  her  evening  prayer 
And  drawn  the  veil  on  her  wind-blown  hair. 
Free  with  the  hawk  and  the  wind  we  stride 
The  open  road,  and  the  world  is  wide 
From  rim  to  rim,  and  the  skies  hung  high, 
And  room  between  for  a  hawk  to  fly 
With  tingling  wing  and  lust  of  the  eye. 

II 

Broad  morning,  blue  morning,  oh,  jubilant  wind ! 
Lord,  Thou  hast  made  our  souls  to  be 
Fluent  and  yearning  long,  as  the  sea 
Yearns  after  the  moon,  and  follows  her, 
With  boon  of  waves  and  sibilant  purr, 

[37] 


Round  this  world  and  past  and  o'er 

All  waste  sea-bottoms  and  curving  shore, 

Only  once  more  and  again  to  find 

The  same  sea-bottoms  and  beaten  beach, 

The  same  sweet  moon  beyond  his  reach 

And  drawing  him  onward  as  before. 

in 

Hark,  from  his  covert  what  a  note 

The  wood  thrush  whirls  from  his  kingly  throat ! 

And  the  bobolink  strikes  that  silver  wire 

He  stole  from  the  archangelic  choir, 

From  a  psaltery  played  in  the  glory  alone 

By  an  amber  angel  beneath  the  throne. 

He  strikes  it  twice,  and  deep,  deep,  deep, 

Where  the  soul  of  music  lies  sleep. — 

The  rest  of  his  song  he  learned,  Ah  me ! 

From  a  gay  little  devil,  loose  and  free, 

Making  trouble  and  love  in  Arcadie. 

IV 

My  brother  of  the  dusty  feet 
Dragged  eastward  as  my  own  go  west, 
Here  from  the  birth  of  time  addressed, 
And  the  manner  of  your  coming  set 
To  this  event,  that  we  might  meet, 
And  glance,  and  pass,  and  then  forget ; 

[38] 


We  meet  no  more  beneath  the  sun, 
Yet  for  an  instant  we  were  one. 
And  now  once  more,  as  you  and  I, 
In  dungeons  of  ourselves  we  lie, 
And  through  the  grated  windows  peer 
As  though  a  falling  star  should  shine 
A  moment  in  your  eyes  and  mine, 
Then  darkness  there,  and  silence  here. 


Oh,  Fons  Bandusiae,  babbling  spring, 
From  what  deep  wells  come  whispering ! 
What  message  bringest  thou,  what  spells 
From  buried  mountain  oracles, 
Thou  limpid,  lucid  mystery? 
Nay,  this  one  thing  I  read  in  thee, 
That  saint  or  sinner,  wise  or  fool, 
Who  dips  hot  lips  within  thy  pool, 
Or  last  or  first,  or  best  or  worst, 
Thou  askest  only  that  he  thirst, 
And  givest  water  pure  and  cool. 

VI 

A  draught  of  water  from  the  spring, 
An  apple  from  the  wayside  tree, 
A  bit  of  bread  for  strengthening, 
A  pipe  for  grace  and  policy; 

[39] 


And  so,  by  taking  time,  to  find 
A  world  that's  mainly  to  one's  mind ; 
Some  health,  some  wit  in  friends  a  few, 
Some  high  behaviours  in  their  kind, 
Some  dispositions  to  be  true. 


[40] 


TO    FAUSTINE 


FAUSTINE 

She  muses  while  the  sunbeams  creep 
In  slanting  piers  of  light, 
She  muses  while  the  shadows  sleep 
About  the  fire  at  night; 

Hers  is  the  vestal's  waiting  air, 
The  silence  sweet  and  weird ; 
More  wisdom  nestles  in  her  hair 
Than  crouched  in  Nestor's  beard ; 

Troops  of  to-morrows  cross  her   thought 
In  happy  Junes  and  Mays, 
And  files  of  slow  Septembers  fraught 
With  priceless  yesterdays; 

And  all  her  hours  a  thronging  host 
With  visitations  fill; 
She  gazes  on  each  tranquil  ghost 
With  eyes  more  tranquil  still. 

[43] 


SOMETIME    IT    MAY    BE 

Sometime  it  may  be  you  and  I 
In  that  deserted  yard  shall  lie, 
Where  memories  fade  away, 
Caring  no  more  for  our  old  dreams, 
Busy  with  new  and  alien  themes, 
As  saints  and  sages  say. 

But  let  our  graves  be  side  by  side, 
That  passers-by  at  even-tide 
May  pause  a  moment's  space: 
"Ah,  they  were  lovers  who  lie  here! 
Else  why  these  low  graves  laid  so  near 
In  this  forgotten  place?" 


[44] 


WHEN    ALL   THE    BROOKS    HAVE 
RUN   AWAY 

When  all  the  brooks  have  run  away, 
When  the  sea  has  left  its  place, 
When  the  dead  earth  to  night  and  day 
Turns  round  a  stony  face, 

Let  other  planets  hold  the  strife 
And  burden  now  it  bears, 
The  toil  of  ages,  lifting  life 
Up  those  unnumbered  stairs, 

Out  of  that  death  no  eye  has  seen 
Tc  something  far  and  high; 
But  underneath  the  stairs,  Faustine, 
How  melancholy  lie 

The  broken  shards  and  left  behind, 
The  frustrate  and  unfit, 
Who  sought  the  infinite  and  kind, 
And  found  the  infinite. 

[45] 


ONE    HOUR 

The  sun  shall  go  darkly  his  way,  the  skies 

Be  lampless  of  stars,  and  the  moon  with  sighs 

Of  her  years  complain, 

And  you  and  I  in  the  waste  shall  meet 

Of  a  downward  gulf  with  hurrying  feet, 

And  remember  then 

Only  this  shy,  encircled  place, 

Only  this  hour's  dimpled  grace — 

And  smile  again. 


[46] 


HEIRS    OF   TIME 

Who  grieves  because  the  world  is  old, 
Or  cares  how  long  it  last, 
If  no  grey  threads  are  in  our  gold, 
The  shade  our  marbles  cast, 

We  may  not  see  it  creeping  near; 
Time's  heirs  are  you  and  I, 
And  freely  spend  each  minted  year 
For  anything  'twill  buy. 


[47] 


WHO    MAY   WITH    THE   SHREWD 
HOURS    STRIVE? 

Who  may  with  the  shrewd  Hours  strive  ? 
Too  thrifty  dealers  they, 
That  with  the  one  hand  blandly  give, 
With  the  other  take  away, 

With  here  and  there  some  falling  flake, 
Some  dust  of  gold,  between 
The  hands  that  give  and  hands  that  take 
Slipped  noiseless  and  unseen. 

Ah,  comedy  of  bargainings, 
Whose  gain  of  years  is  found 
A  little  silt  of  golden  things 
Forgotten  on  the  ground! 


[48] 


LET    ME    NO    MORE   A 
MENDICANT 

Let  me  no  more  a  mendicant 

Without  the  gate 

Of  the  world's  kingly  palace  wait; 

Morning  is  spent, 

The  sentinels  change  and  challenge  in  the  tower, 

Now  slant  the  shadows  eastward  hour  by  hour. 

Open  the  door,  O  Seneschal !    Within 

I  see  them  sit, 

The  feasters,  daring  destiny  with  wit, 

Casting  to  win 

Or  lose  their  utmost,  and  men  hurry  by 

At  offices  of  confluent  energy. 

Let  me  not  here  a  mendicant 

Without  the  gate 

Linger  from  dayspring  till  the  night  is  late, 

And  there  are  sent 

All  homeless  stars  to  loiter  in  the  sky, 

And  beggared  midnight  winds  to  wander  by. 

[49] 


CURARE    SEPULTOS 

Id  cinerem  aut  Manis  credis  curare  sepultos? 

"Do  you  think  their  spirits  care 

For  their  ashes  and  their  tombs?" 

Do  you  think  they  are  aware, 

That  the  tended  roses  are  all  gone  with  their  perfumes, 

That  the  footsteps  of  the  mourners  no  longer  linger 

there, 
Where  the  field  flower  only  blooms? 

They  are  dead.    Let  none  remember ; 

Let  their  memories  die  as  they; 

Clear  the  dead  leaves  of  November 

For  the  careless  passing  footsteps  of  April  and  of  May ; 

Be  no  sign  of  last  night's  saddened  ember 

In  the  flame  we  raise  to-day. 

Not  that  our  hearts  are  cold, 

O  dead  friends,  who  were  dear  to  us! 

Do  we  our  lips  withhold 

From  fallen  stones  and  low  graves  piteous, 

But  only  that  death's  voice  is  faint  and  old, 

And  life's  imperious. 

[50] 


TO-MORROW 

Nunc  vino  pellite  curas, 

Cras  ingens  iterabimus  aequor. 

Now  drive  away  your  cares  with  wine, 
To-morrow  on  the  sea  we  go. 
To-night  for  us  the  tapers  shine, 
To-night  the  roses  blow; 
To-morrow  shall  our  steps  incline 
Where  the  wild  waters  flow. 

To-morrow!     Let  to-morrow  be 

Where  all  this  world's  to-morrows  are; 

Where  each  must  follow  faithfully 

The  guiding  of  his  star. 

The  moment  that  is  given  me 

Is  mine  to  make  or  mar. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  your  eyes, 
And  I  with  mine  will  pay  the  debt; 
Drink  to  my  moment  ere  it  dies 
Divine  and  fragrant  yet: 
To  each  to-night  its  melodies! 
To-morrow  to  forget! 

[51] 


SNOW 

After  the  singing  birds  are  gone 
And  the  leaves  are  parched  and  low, 
When  the  year  is  old,  and  the  sky  is  wan, 
Then  comes  the  snow. 

Hushed  are  the  world's  discordant  notes 
By  the  soft  hand  of  snow. 
Each  flake  how  silently  it  floats  ; 
How  peaceable,  how  slow! 

Ah,  when  the  silver  cord  is  loosed 
And  the  golden  bowl  is  broken, 
And  the  spirit  poured  on  the  air  unused, 
As  one  has  spoken, 

After  the  last  faint  sob  of  breath 
And  the  jar  of  life's  outflow, 
Over  the  sunken  soul  comes  death, 
Soft,  cool,  like  snow. 


[52] 


BY   THE   SEA 

Ave  Maria  by  the  sea, 
Whose  waves  go  on  forevermore ! 
And  we,  the  sheltered  of  the  shore, 
Have  prayed  to  thee  . 

For  those  in  ships  that  journey  far, 
Where  all  day  long  their  sails  are  white, 
And  grey  and  ghostly  in  the  night 
Each  ship  beneath  its  star. 

Ave  Maria!     Be  our  guide. 

A  watchful  star,  a  port  to  reach, 

Ave  Maria!  give  to  each 

Some  eventide. 

Be  thou  our  moon  of  mystic  light, 

Across  the  ocean's  gloom  and  wrath 

Showing  the  lines  of  a  silver  path 

To  watchers  in  the  night. 

Ave  Maria!    From  the  sea 
The  constant  litanies  arise; 
The  burden  of  its  many  sighs 
Goes  up  to  thee. 

[53] 


Our  lives  make  murmur  and  are  vain 
As  ripples  bringing  tiny  shells, 
That  the  great  sea  behind  impels, 
And  all  its  waves  complain. 


[54] 


IN    PORT   TO-DAY 

Now  are  harboured  ships  asleep 

Beside  their  shadows, 

Home  from  the  wind-winnowed  deep 

And  unscythed  meadows 

Of  the  bright  green  gliding  sea, 

From  the  windward  gliding  to  the  lee ; 

And  one  ship  in  port  to-day 

On  the  morrow 

Southward  bound  will  far  away 

The  swift  sea  furrow; 

Whom  the  loud  Antarctic  waits 

And  frozen  citadels  with  creaking  gates. 


[55] 


THE    RETURN 

I  have  a  home,  though  palmer  bound 
For  holy  lands,  I  pine  for  it; 
I  know  its  sheltering  walls  around 
The  hearth  and  lamp  that  shine  for  it, 
The  door  apart; 

I  shall  return  on  windward  seas 
By  blue  shores  of  Illyria 
To  find  it  filled  with  melodies 
From  Eden,  beyond  Syria. 
It  is  your  heart. 


[56] 


AS   WE    GROW   OLD 

Tempora  labuntur  tadtisque  senescimus  annis. 

"Time  glides  along  and  we  grow  old 
By  process  of  the  silent  years," 
More  fain  the  busy  hands  to  fold, 
More  quiet  when  a  tale  is  told 
Where  death  appears. 

It  is  not  that  the  feet  would  shrink 
From  that  dark  river,  lapping,  cold, 
And  hid  with  mists  from  brink  to  brink; 
Only  one  likes  to  sit  and  think, 
As  one  grows  old. 


[57] 


WAYFARERS 

All  honest  things  in  the  world  we  met 

With  welcome,  fair  and  free ; 
A  little  love  is  with  us  yet, 

A  friend,  or  two,  or  three ; 

Of  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  were  glad, 

Of  the  waters  of  river  and  sea; 
We  thank  Thee,  Lord,  for  the  years  we've  had, 

For  the  years  that  yet  shall  be. 

These  are  our  brothers,  the  winds  of  the  airs, 

These  are  our  sisters,  the  flowers ; 
Be  near  us  at  evening  and  hear  our  prayers, 

O  God,  in  the  late,  grey  hours. 


[58] 


THE    HOUSE 

Such  an  house  I'll  build  and  own, 
When  into  old  contentment  grown 
With  reaping  what  my  youth  has  sown. 

The  drooping  roof  be  low  and  wide, 
Curved  like  a  seashell's  inner  side ; 
Let  vines  the  patient  pillars  hide 

Of  that  deep  porch  and  ample  shade ; 
There  let  no  hurrying  step  invade, 
Troubled  or  anxious  or  afraid. 

I  pray  that  birches  very  white 

May  stand  athwart  the  woods  at  night, 

Sweet  and  slim  by  late  moonlight; 

And  I  desire  a  beech  may  be 
Not  far  away  from  mine  and  me, 
Strong,  pure,  serene,  and  matronly; 

[59] 


An  oak  outspread  in  ample  space, 
Strength  out  of  storms  met  face  to  face, 
In  his  male  girth  and  wide  embrace. 

Lest  all  the  years  go  by  in  vain 

Let  the  wind  only  and  the  rain 

Paint  my  four  walls  with  weather  stain, 

Nor  phantom  youth  be  ever  there; 
Of  time's  significance  aware, 
Time's  grey  insignia  let  them  bear. 

A  brook  before  shall  glide  along, 
And  where  its  narrow  waters  throng 
Make  bubble  music  and  low  song. 

A  garden  on  the  rearward  side 
Shall  hold  some  flowers  of  civil  pride, 
And  some  in  meekness  dignified. 

Within  my  house  all  men  may  see 
How  goodly  four-square  beams  may  be, 
How  unashamed  in  honesty. 

There  shall  my  day  to  evening  creep, 
Though  downvtard,  yet,  as  rivers  sweep 
By  winding  ways  to  the  great  deep. 

[60] 


SONNETS 


THE    HILLS 

Consider  the  large  heavenward  hills,  their  ease, 
Their  genial  age,  their  wisdom.    More  and  more 
I  lift  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  which  bore 
Of  old  their  brunt  of  battle,  and  have  peace. 
These  are  the  scars  were  ground  across  their  knees 
When  the  earth  shuddered  and  the  ice  came  on. 
The  hills  have  heaved  and  shouted  and  made  moan 
For  the  hot  fire  that  bit  their  arteries. 

Gentle  and  strong,  old  veterans  of  war, 
Now  humble  with  each  flower  and  woven  nest, 
Friends  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  morning  star, 
And  fain  of  the  mad  north  wind's  biting  jest; 
My  counsellors  at  unwritten  law  they  are, 
Teachers  of  lore  and  laughter,  labour  and  rest. 


[63] 


WORDSWORTH 

Not  for  a  kindred  reason  thee  we  praise 

With  those,  who  in  their  minstrelsy  are  lords 

Of  elfin  pipe  and  witchery  of  words, 

Masters  of  life,  who  thread  its  tangled  maze, 

And  on  strange  corners  turn  their  curious  gaze ;    - 

Nor  those  that  delve  for  jewels  in  the  hoards 

Of  old  philosophies,  of  love's  soft  ways 

Sing  variously,  or  chaunt  of  clashing  swords. 

Rather  for  sympathy  with  the  silent  laws, 

Which  are  themselves  but  sympathies;  that  the  worn 

Fine  here  a  "still  Saint  Mary's  Lake" ;  because 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us,"  and  through  thee 

"Old  Triton"  sometimes  blows  on  "wreathed  horn" 

A  fitful  note,  clear  from  infinity. 


[64] 


THE    WATER-LILY 

Our  boat  drifts  idly  on  the  listless  river 

And  water-lilies  brush  its  bulging  side, 

In  feeble  wavings  while  the  waters  quiver 

Like  the  pale  sleeper's  pulse  before  he  died. 

Reach  me  that  wrater-lily  floating  near; 

Its  sullen  roots  give  way  with  dull  regret, 

And  now  it  lies  across  your  fingers,  dear, 

Long,  glistening  in  the  sunlight,  green  and  wet. 

See  the  gold  heart  emerging  from  the  dew, 

Folded  in  petals  of  the  purest  white! 

Look!  through  this  stem  in  silent  hours  it  drew 

Its  fragrance  from  deep  waters  out  of  sight, 

And  found  among  the  river  oozes  cold, 

This  perfume  and  this  whiteness  and  this  gold. 


[65] 


THE    THRUSH 

I  heard  a  wood  thrush  singing  late  and  long 
In  the  warm  silence  of  the  afternoon, 
And  drew  more  near  to  hear  his  secret  croon 
And  intimate  close  confidence  of  song, 
But  at  the  noisy  tread  of  my  rude  feet 
The  music  ceased,  the  phantom  voice  was  gone, 
And  far  awray  I  heard  him,  in  the  sweet, 
Serene  recesses  singing,  and  alone. 

The  law  is  written  on  the  evening  skies, 

The  wood   thrush  sings  its  beauty  and   despair; 

Thou  shalt  not  trespass  where  the  loveliest  lies, 

Nor  use  the  holiest  place  for  common  prayer, 

And  surely  as  God  liveth,  to  the  eyes 

Of  him  who  lifts  the  veil,  He  is  not  there. 


[66] 


THE    ROMAN  WAY 

i 

Being  so  weary  then  we  turned  aside 

From  the  straight  road  and  Roman  Way  that  goes 

Too  straightly  upward,  on  what  breathless  snows 

Its  measured  lines'  austerity  descried. 

"Captain,  too  stern  this  granite  road!"  we  cried, 

And  "For  whose  right  in  militant  array 

Are  led  the  sons  of  men  this  Roman  Way?" 

But  the  slow  avalanche  alone  replied. 

Therefore  we  turned  aside,  and  day  by  day 

Men  passed  us  with  set  faces  to  the  road, 

And  crying,  "The  Eternal  City!"  went  their  way, 

While  in  the  pleasant  valley  we  abode 

With  all  its  dewy  herbage  and  the  fleet 

Running  of  rivulets  with  silken  feet. 

II 

And  we  had  large  experience  with  the  stars 
And  sweet  acquaintance  with  the  clovered  sods, 
The  seasons  were  our  epics,  filled  with  wars, 
And  heroes'  councils  and  untroubled  gods. 

[67] 


The  groves  elegiac,  rivers  pastoral, 
Meadows  athrill  with  sudden  tragedies, 
With  loves  of  larks  aloft  and  lyrical, 
And  busy  comedy  of  the  citizen  bees. 

Still  of  their  genial  fellowship  who  wait 
The  spring's  incoming  as  a  marriage  morn 
Whom  fall  and  winter  winds  will  make  elate 
As  bugles  a  young  hunter,  we  were  borne 
Along  the  casual  current  of  each  day 
Apart  from  those  who  trod  the  Roman  Way. 

in 

And  in  the  main  of  living  we  were  glad 
That  we  had  left  the  highway  and  had  grown 
To  wear  our  tolerance  as  a  silken  gown 
And  smile  at  those  who  went  in  armour  clad ; 
And  old  age  came  upon  us,  grey  and  sad, 
Stealthy  and  slow,  and  passed  and  passed  again 
The  onward  faces  of  swift  journeying  men, 
Keen  with  the  life  of  some  large  Iliad. 

Now — for  our  heads  are  stricken,  our  lives  are 
As  flowers  sodden  in  the  winter  rain — - 
We,  who  alive  are  dead — and  whether  far 
Beyond  the  snows  are  blissful  births  of  pain, 
Or  Rome,  or  Caesar,  we  know  not — we  say, 
"There  is  one  way  of  life,  the  Roman  Way." 
[68] 


FOLLY 

Blithe  little  maid  with  lifted  lips, 
Red  as  a  bunch  of  holly, 
What!     May  I  hold  your  finger  tips, 
Dear  little  sweetheart,  Folly? 

t 

List  to  a  whisper  in  your  ear, 

Pink  little  ear,  dear  Folly, 

While  you  wrere  gone  some  one  was  here, 

The  Lady  Melancholy. 

Yes,  and  she  sat  in  your  old  place, 
This  Lady  Melancholy. 
Ah,  well!  but  she  had  a  lovely  face, 
Sweet  as  your  face,  sweet  Folly. 


[71] 


CONCERNING     TABITHA'S     DANC 
ING   OF   THE    MINUET 

Tabitha,  sweet  Tabitha,  I  never  can  forget, 
Nor  how  the  music  sounded,  nor  how  our  glances  met, 
When  underneath  the  swinging  lamps  we  danced  the 
minuet. 

The  stately  bow,  the  dainty  poise,  and  in  the  music 

slips. 
Did  she  linger  for  a  moment,  while  I  held  her  finger 

tips, 
And  wondered  if  she'd  ever  let  me  touch  them  to  my 

lips? 

And  Tabitha  wore  powdered  hair  and  dressed  in  quaint 

brocade, 
A  tiny  patch  on  either  cheek  just  where  the  dimple 

played ; 
The  little  shoe  I  noticed  too,  and  clocks,  I  am  afraid. 

[72] 


The  music  ceased.    I  led  her  softly  smiling  to  the  door. 
A  pause,  a  rustling  courtesy  down  almost  to  the  floor, 
And  Tabitha,  sweet  Tabitha,  mine  eyes  beheld  no  more. 

I've  trod  in  many  measures  since  with  widow,  wife,  and 

maid, 

In  every  kind  of  satin,  silk,  and  spangled  lace  arrayed, 
And  through  it  all  have  heard  the  fall  of  Tabitha's 

brocade. 


[73] 


AN    IDYL    OF   THE    WOOD 

Janet  and  I  went  jesting 

To  the  wood,  to  the  woo.', 

In  a  visionary,  questing, 

Idle  mood. 

"Ah!  my  heart,"  I  said,  "it  teaches 

I  shall  find  among  the  beeches 

A  white  nymph  in  the  green  reaches 

Of  the  wood." — 


"Oh,  you  will !    Then  I'll  discover, 
In  the  wood,  in  the  wrood, 
A  fairy  prince  and  lover, 
Or  as  good. 

He  shall  kneel  and " 

"Now  I  spy  light! 
She  shall  meet  me  in  the  shy  light 
Of  the  twittering  leaves  and  twilight 
Of  the  wood, 

[74] 


"And  I'll  sa)',  'Here  love  convinces 
Of  his  powers,  of  his  powers.'  " — 
"And  he'll  say,  'Thou  shalt  be  Princess 
Of  the  Flowers.'  "— 
"And  I'll  whisper,  'Though  thou  shinest 
As  a  goddess,  love's  divinest, 
Loveless,  lovely,  lo!  thou  pinest 
In  thy  bowers.'  " — 

And  she  laughed,  with,  "Farewell,  poet," — 

And  I  said,  "Farewell,  maid. 

Seek  love  alone,  alone,  and  know  it 

Unafraid." — 

Was  it  hours  I  went  unwitting, 

Fancy  into  fancy  fitting, 

Pallid  flowers,  and  dim  birds  flitting, 

As  I  strayed? 

Till  at  length,  where  in  profusion 

Low  and  wet,  wild  and  wet, 

Fern  and  branch  in  shy  confusion 

Wooed  and  met, 

There  I  saw  her,  lifting,  peeping — 

"Dryad?" — "Prince?"— come  whispering,  creeping. 

Then  her  eyes  were  lit  and  leaping. 

'Twas  Janet! 

[75] 


Lit  and  leaping  with  suggestions. 
"Why,  it's  you!"— "Why,  it's  you!" 
"Yes,  but,  Jenny,  now  the  question's, 
Is  it  true? 

Am  I  princely  to  your  seeming? 
You  the  dryad  of  my  dreaming, 
Born  of  beech  leaves  and  the  gleaming 
Of  the  dew?" 


And  we  put  it  to  the  testing 

Of  a  kiss,  of  a  kiss, 

And  the  jesting  and  the  questing 

Came  to  this. 

"Tested,  tried,  and  proven  neatly, 

I  should  call  it  true  completely." 

And  Janet  said  softly,  sweetly, 

"So  it  is." 

Oh,  the  glamour  and  the  glimmer 
Of  the  wood,  of  the  wood, 
Where  the  shadow  and  the  shimmer 
Smile  and  brood, 

Where  the  lips  of  love  laugh  folly, 
Aad  the  eyes  of  love  are  holy, 
In  the  radiant  melancholy 
Of  the  wood ! 

[76] 


PHYLLIS   AND    CORYDON 

Phyllis  took  a  red  rose  from  the  tangles  of  her  hair, — 
Time,  the  Golden  Age ;  the  place,  Arcadia,  anywhere, — 

Phyllis  laughed,  the  saucy  jade:  "Sir  Shepherd,  wilt 

have  this, 
Or" — Bashful  god  of  skipping  lambs  and  oaten  reeds! 

—"a  kiss?" 

Bethink  thee,  gentle  Corydon!  A  rose  lasts  all  night 
long, 

A  kiss  but  slips  from  off  your  lips  like  a  thrush's  even 
ing  song. 

A  kiss  that  goes,  where  no  one  knows !  A  rose,  a  crim 
son  rose! 

Corydon  made  his  choice  and  took — Well,  which  do 
you  suppose? 


[77] 


MAYING 

Get  up,  sweet-slug-a-bed!     Herrick. 

And  Phillida  with  garlands  gaye 

Was  made  the  lady  of  the  Maye.    Nicholas  Breton. 

Come,  Phillida,  come!  for  the  hours  are  fleet, 
And  sweet  are  the  soft  meadow  murmurs,  and  sweet 
Are  the  merry  May  flowers  that  long  for  thy  feet. 
Come,  Phillida,  come! 

They  are  waiting  to  make  thee  their  Lady  of  May, 
And  have  twined  in  the  midst  of  the  marigolds  gay 
A  little  red  flower;  for  pity,  they  say; 
Thou  knowest  for  whom. 

And  lovers  are  sighing  among  the  green  brake, 
And  birds  in  their  flying  soft  madrigals  make. 
Hark!  hear  the  girls  crying,  and  all  for  thy  sake. 
Come,  Phillida,  come! 


[78] 


TWO    LITTLE    MAIDS 

Two  little  maids  went  roaming,  roaming, 
All  in  the  fields  alone. 
"Suppose  that  a  boy  were  coming,  coming, 
Over  the  fields,"  said  one,  said  one, 
To  the  other  little  maid  said  one. 

Then  the  second  little  maid  fell  dreaming,  dreaming. 

"He'll  bring  me  a  rose,"  said  she. 

"He  won't!    You  are  always  scheming,  scheming, 

As  horrid  as  you  can  be!"     Dear  me! 

As  horrid  as  she  could  be. 

Two  little  maids  in  a  fury,  fury, 
No  little  boy  in  view, 
And  this  is  the  end  of  the  story.    Sorry! 
Why  didn't  they  make  it  two?     Eheu! 
So  simple  to  make  him  two! 


[79] 


TWENTY   YEARS    HENCE 

Twenty  years  hence,  some  fading  day, 

Will  you  through  this  green  orchard  stray, 

With  thoughts  afar 

On  golden  hours  we  freely  spent, 

And  bought  the  merchandise,  content, 

At  Time's  bazaar? 

You'll  say — "He  purred  the  smoke  in  rings; 

We  talked  of  books,  and  other  things; 

Devised  a  plot; 

Together  wove  some  idle  rhymes 

Of  coloured  threads  that  matched  sometimes, 

And  sometimes  not. 

"The  oriole  from  his  chosen  tree 
Made  better  poetry  than  we, 
About  his  nest. 

Soft  paced  the  hours  like  clouds,  until 
There  rose  a  poem  better  still 
Far  in  the  west." — 

[80] 


Twenty  years  hence !    Across  the  sky 

The  swift  incessant  swallows  fly. 

You'll  not  forget 

The  bees,  nor  how  the  oriole  sung, 

Twenty  years  since,  when  we  were  young, 

His  chansonette? 

"Margaret,  Margaret!"    Some  one  calls! 
"Margaret,  come.    The  night  dew  falls, 
The  grass  is  wet." 

Twenty  years  hence — The  lawn  is  dark, 
And  the  whip-poor-wills  are  wailing.     Hark! 
"Margaret!    Margaret!" 


[81] 


WITHOUT   THE   GATE 

Spectral  birches,  slim  and  white, 

Stand  apart  in  the  cool  moonlight, 

The  faint  thin  cries 

Of  the  night  arise 

And  the  stars  are  out  in  companies. 

They  are  but  lamps  on  your  palace  stair, 

My  queen  of  the  night  with  dusky  hair, 

Whose  heart  is  a  rose 

In  a  garden  close 

And  the  gate  is  shut  where  the  highway  goes. 

Margaret,  Margaret,  early  and  late 

I  knock  and  whisper  without  the  gate. 

No  night  wind  blows, 

Still  is  the  rose, 

Noiseless  the  flowing  moonlight  flows. 

I  knock  and  listen.    No  sound  is  heard. 

The  rose  in  its  fragrance  sleeps  unstirred. 

Early  and  late 

I  watch  and  wait 

For  the  love  of  a  rose  by  a  garden  gate. 

[82] 


ANCIEN    M'SIEU    PIERRE 

Was  it,  Nannette,  so  long  ago? 
Trois  vingt  et — Chut !     How  time  does  go ! 
You  must  be  dead!    What  do  I  know! 
'Twas  long  ago. 

Your  eyes — ah,  I  remember  now! 
They  seemed  to  say,  "But,  Pierre,  you're  so, 
So  bad !"     And  that  was  long  ago, 
Long,  long  ago. 

Yes,  they  were  blue.     And  you  stood  there, 
And  then  the  wind  blew  out  your  hair. 
How  beautiful !  how  soft !  how  fair, 
Nannette,  your  hair! 

So  long  it  takes  one  to  forget! 
I  have  been  glad,  and  am,  and  yet, 
Sometimes — it's  strange — one's  eyes  are  wet. 
Nannette !     Nannette ! 

What's  that !    I  dream !    Did  some  one  speak  ? 
Her  hair  was  blown  across  my  cheek. 
It  seemed  so.     How  the  shutters  creak! 
Did  some  one  speak? 

[83] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE 

The  abbot  was  counting  his  beads  in  his  cell 
With  a  flagon  beside  him.    The  abbot  drank  well, 
And  emptied  it  oft  ere  the  first  matin  bell. 
All  quiet,  all  wrell. 

"Hist!     Brother  Menander!     A  word  in  thine  ear. 
I'll  show  thee  a  way,  if  the  corridor's  clear, 
To  the  abbot's  own  cellar.    The  abbot  may  hear? 
Never  fear!     Never  fear!" 

Oh,  Brother  Menander,  oh,  bold  Brother  John, 
Be  chary,  call  wary  on  Mary  her  Son! 
Ah,  Jesu,  the  moon  the  cold  snow  shines  on, 
How  bitter  and  wan! 

So  roundly  they  drank  till  the  first  matin  bell, 
And  were  caught  by  the  abbot,  as  chronicles  tell. 
What  would  you !    'Twas  Christmas  Eve.    So  it  befell. 
And  all  quiet  and  well. 


[84] 


THE    CAROL    SINGER 

Gentles  all,  or  knights  or  ladies, 
Happiness  be  yours,  alway; 
Dance  and  carolling  our  trade  is, 
But  we  sing  for  love  to-day. 

Merry  lads  and  dainty  lasses 
Trip  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
Dance  to  sound  of  clinking  glasses. 
Bells  are  ringing  in  the  snow. 

By  the  look  that  on  your  face  is, 
Sweet,  my  song  is  worth  a  kiss. 
There  is  weeping  in  cold  places, 
We  must  laugh  the  more  in  this. 

Gentles  all,  or  knights  or  ladies, 
Happiness  is  yours,  alway; 
Dance  and  carolling  our  trade  is, 
But  we  sing  for  love  to-day. 


[85] 


ARCADIE.    I 

On  the  road  to  Arcadie, 
Past  the  mountains,  past  the  sea, 
Past  the  crossways  soberly 
To  Arcadie,  to  Arcadie. 

Pilgrims  of  a  dream  are  we, 
Knowing  not  if  true  it  be, 
But  we  press  on  silently 
To  Arcadie,  to  Arcadie. 

Arcadie!     Oh,  Arcadie! 
We  are  lost,  we  cannot  see ! 
For  the  dust  blows  bitterly 
On  the  road  to  Arcadie. 


[86] 


ARCADIE.    II 

I  travelled  many  winding  ways 
That  weary  seemed  to  me, 
In  cloudy  nights  and  windy  days 
To  find  old  Arcadie. 

The  shepherds  by  the  wayside  wept 
"We  fain  would  go  with  thee, 
An  'twere  not  for  the  sheep  we  kept, 
To  far  off  Arcadie." 

Along  the  selfsame  way  I  fare 

And  the  shepherds  ask  of  me, 

"Hast  thou  seen  the  sweet  land  anywhere?" 

"Yea,  but  the  people  dwelling  there 

Know  not  'tis  Arcadie." 


[87] 


MARTIAL   TO    PLINY 

Cum  rosa  regnat,  cum  madent  capilli, 
Nunc  me  vel  rigidi  legant  Catones. 

Come  not  with  wine  drops  on  the  hair 

To  Pliny's  gates, 

To  whom  all  earnest  thoughts  repair, 
And  quiet  Wisdom  entered  there 

His  bidding  waits. 

When  the  rose  is  queen  and  the  hair  is  wet 

With  wine  and  oil, 
Read  Martial's  verses,  and  forget 
That  life  is  stern,  and  time  a  debt 

To  pay  with  toil. 


[88] 


LAST    YEAR'S    NEST 

There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest. 

Where  snows  have  been, 

There  is  no  place  for  love  to  rest 

And  nestle  in. 

- 

Mine  were  the  summer  songs,  but  there 
Fell  the  white  cold. 
No  feathery  thoughts  now  nestle  where 
They  did  of  old. 


[89] 


EPILOGUE    TO   A    BOOK    OF 
UNIMPORTANT    VERSES 

An  unfair  title  that  forestalls 

The  judgment  of  my  peers, 

An  after  title  that  recalls 

The  hopes  of  other  years, 

When  words  were  flowers  beside  the  way, 

And  the  world  in  rhythm  ran, 

And  grief  was  dainty,  and  love  was  play, 

And  the  breath  of  death  would  scan, 

And  all  the  long  results  of  time 

Were  captives  of  a  happy  rhyme. 


[90] 


FINIS 

The  wind  and  the  rain 

And  the  sunshine  again 
And  the  murmur  of  flies  at  the  window  pane! 

I  weave  my  rhymes 

In  the  morning  betimes, 
And  it  all  creeps  in  with  the  faint  word  chimes. 

For  the  wind  is  there, 

Wet  skies  and  fair, 
And  the  buzz  of  the  flies  there  too  somewhere, 

And  there  is  the  beat 

Of  the  passers'  feet 
Gone  echoing  down  the  hidden  street. 


f  UIS 


[91] 


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